


Learn What's Never Shown

by orphan_account



Series: A Basketful of First-Times [5]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Jedi Apprentice Series - Jude Watson & Dave Wolverton, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Accidental Plot, Alien Culture, Alien Flora & Fauna, Alien Mythology/Religion, Aliens Made Them Do It, Aphrodisiacs, Awkward Sexual Situations, Awkwardness, Breaking Celibacy Vows, First Time, Fluff, Force Bond (Star Wars), Gen, Gentle Sex, Kissing in the Rain, M/M, Making Love, Master & Padawan Relationship(s), Multiple Orgasms, Non-Penetrative Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prompt Fic, Ritual Sex, Tags Are Fun, yep more pwp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-24 15:54:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21960514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Qui-Gon and his Padawan are called to a planet to celebrate the peace that Obi-Wan once brokered; their presence coincides with a fertility ritual, an offering, assuring the breaking of the yearly drought and the sowing of good seed.Naturally, the Jedi are rather insistently invited to participate.And / or: naturally, the Force provides a loophole for two sworn-celibate warrior-monks in love (who haven't figured out the last bit yet).Or: "How can you learn what's never shown?Yeah, you stand here on your own . . .And you see the things they never see:All you wanted, I could be.Now you know me, and I'm not afraid . . . "
Relationships: Bant Eerin & Obi-Wan Kenobi, Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Series: A Basketful of First-Times [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1876582
Comments: 18
Kudos: 55
Collections: Master Apprentice Archive





	Learn What's Never Shown

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Black_Teapot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Teapot/gifts).



> > "If you want another idea for a story: what would you think of someone (Qui-Gon or Obi-Wan) anticipating their first time, thinking a lot about it. Maybe by the prism of what is consider "proper and complete lovemaking". And finally it doesn't happen at all like this. And they find reassurance or peace or contentment (or something else?) in it."
> 
> All hail Black_Teapot! Giver-of-prompts extraordinaire! <3
> 
> (Seriously, friend, thank you so much!! I'm in a bit of a trench in terms of writing, so these prompts really help keep things unstuck! I hope you enjoy!)
> 
> And . . . this one meant a lot, from the standpoint of being a hopelessly romantic semi-anomaly of a gay man who doesn't like penetrative sex. It became another one of those "cheap therapy" fics where I can just daydream my real-life cares away because thus far I haven't met anyone who agrees that anal isn't everything and yes, folks can actually fall in love before they boink . . .
> 
> Anyway, the title and "Or" are from the _Treasure Planet_ soundtrack--["I'm Still Here"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l9RnuTQfXyg). (I can't recommend this cover enough. Caleb Hyles' voice is amazing. And I can't _begin_ to tell you how many _Jedi Apprentice_ feels I get from this song, either . . . )
> 
> "And what do you think you'd understand?  
> I'm a boy--no, I'm a man . . .  
> And how can you learn what's never shown?  
> Yeah, you stand here on your own . . .
> 
> And you see the things they never see:  
> All you wanted, I could be.  
> Now you know me, and I'm not afraid.  
> And I wanna tell you who I am:  
> Can you help me be a man?  
> . . .  
> And I want a moment to be real,  
> Wanna touch things I don't feel,  
> Wanna hold on and feel I belong . . ."
> 
> And oops I made another Star Trek reference lol
> 
> Comments are ever and always appreciated; thank you so much for reading, and I do hope you enjoy. <3

The planet of Riél’ch is _red_ : crimson sky and thick-headed spears of cerise grass and foliage and chestnut-coated fauna. Even the Riél’chii—towering beings, powerful, rotund—are a deep-ruddy shade, as are the flowing silks they wear, the metalwork adornments copper-sheened, the stones like polished drops of blood.

And yet it is to such a world that Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan are summoned for a peace gala—a rarity: not so much because peace in the galaxy is so utterly rare, but because the Jedi are never called when all is soft and still.

Three days the gala lasts: each day for a year of war. The Riél’chii are scholars and clerics, not warriors, though it was some scroll of prophecy which struck a spark: factions clashed and even beings hardly given to the art of war can kill. And so it was that Obi-Wan undertook his first diplomatic mission, with Qui-Gon at his side as a precaution, lest anything go wrong . . . but the Master needed do no more than hover as a shadow, beaming, while his Padawan argued theology and ended the paltry war with the very words which brought it, and durasteel weapons were beaten at last back into ploughshares.

Three days the gala lasts, and three years it’s been since they set foot on the crimson world: again Qui-Gon settles in the shadows, watching his Padawan make the rounds of gathered priests and dignitaries, commoners and soldiers—such that they had been. To each he gives soft words, the light of kind blue eyes—blue, ah, a wonder to their hosts—quietly offering libations from his own cup into each. A courtesy—a ritual—“I have more than enough; let me share”—though Qui-Gon knows it’s as much because Obi-Wan bears a distinct distaste for blood wine.

“Thine apprentice has grown much.” A soft murmur at his ear, a presence at his shoulder, and Qui-Gon cranes his head up to stare into silver, cowl-shadowed eyes. S’riin Thielo, one of the highest priests. “Physically he is the same, but his _tra’agh_ . . . how do thou translate this? . . . his spirit, his essence . . . is strong. Much stronger than before. It sings, and I shiver with its singing.”

“He was twenty-two when we first came.” Qui-Gon folds his hands into his robe, a smile quirking at his lips, even as a part of him recoils at the tone with which the last pronouncement came. “Not then a child, nor a man . . . but yes, he’s grown, more than I can fully know. The Force is strong with him indeed.”

“Yes—and so with thee—there is a blessing and burden upon thee; I know the mark well, and I see the look upon thy face now at what I’ve said . . . Thou shiver at his spirit-song as well . . . ah . . . Will thou leave tomorrow then, Je’daii?”

The archaic term . . . Qui-Gon frowns, conscious of its choice usage and connotations. “Yes, although we’ll remain for most of the day. We’ve scheduled passage aboard a transport, but it leaves at dusk.”

“Most excellent.” The priest bends low, snout brushing in a tremulous velvet whisper against Qui-Gon’s ear, “We have a favor to ask of thee. An honor it would be, if thee and thine apprentice might participate. The end of the gala tonight coincides with the rising of the Blue Star—marked with a ritual to ensure a broken drought and the sowing of good seed for a hearty crop. These things happening in tandem is most auspicious indeed.”

 _A fertility ritual?_ The Jedi tilts his head, studying his Padawan again: cast as sliver-lit silhouette he seems suddenly so young . . . “What would this entail?”

“An offering to the Storm-Bringer, the Seed-Sower, from the dark of night ’til dawn. Three years ago it was that dignitary and myself”—a nod to the being with whom Obi-Wan converses, mired in a trapping of finely-wrought metal and the frozen drops of stones—“who offered ourselves. To lay aside the art of war for the art of . . . _erílthee._ Forgive me—there is no word in Basic.”

“I thought not.” A breeze stirs Qui-Gon’s hair—heavy, thick; the air smells sharp, almost acrid, as if a herald of the electricity that will dance from the skies, the horizon already pregnant with clouds, with the promise of rain. “But tell me, please—what would you require of us, S’riin Thielo? Forgive me if I misunderstand the implications, but our Order—we’re sworn celibates; we cannot possibly—”

“Thou will speak of what thou cannot know, and yet I know thou know. As does he. Even if thee’ve not yet known, together . . .

“Besides.” Hands weighed heavily with filed claws are warm against his shoulders; of greater heft is the feel, unseen, of the being at his back, several feet taller and as much a mountain among his kind as the man among his. “Thy apprentice has imbibed much blood wine this afternoon. Thou’ve drunk but a cup thyself, though perhaps that is enough. Can thee not feel it stirring, Je’daii? Do thou not hear his spirit-song—do thou not hear that it is utterly in time, in key, with thine? That thee sing not the same notes, ah, but that he is the harmony to thy melody? He would follow thee anywhere . . .”

The world tilts, shifts, blurring at the priest’s words, the rhythm catching until it becomes almost an invocation: Qui-Gon half-slips from flesh and peers through the currents of the living Force, all beings arrayed in colors and soft-songs and light—oh, Light—

And there, ever, always, his Padawan. Blue, blue in the midst of all of it . . . pale blue, the blue of the morning sky as dawn begins to break . . . and himself, himself the delicate green of a seedling seeking light and life, the light brought only with the broken dawn . . . that cannot exist without it . . .

And amidst all this, the unmistakable rush of blood to his groin, oh Force, desire, drunken-holy, heady, sacred-wild—

Qui-Gon forces himself back into his body with a gasp, a staggered step, grateful for his robe and that no revelers have seemed to care, although the surge of need and the painful tightness of his trousers threaten to trace a grimace across his face.

Blue eyes meet his through the sea of late-afternoon slanting light and crimson beings milling; a tension has settled across the open, vaulted gala-hall, one that has nothing at all to do with the storm promised in coming.

* * *

_< Padawan. Come with me for a moment.>_

Obi-Wan glances up, finds that Qui-Gon’s traversed the room and stands just at his shoulder, as he always seems to be. He bows his head to the dignitary, offering the last drops of blood wine, running his thumb along the bas-relief chalice as his Master guides him from the crowd: into the shadows, into the resplendent grotto that houses Riél’ch’s central government.

He can feel tension roiling from Qui-Gon’s frame—the string of their bond taut and quivering, as if plucked by restless hands. “What is it, Master?”

“We have been asked to participate in a ritual tonight. A matter of religious importance to our hosts.”

Obi-Wan studies Qui-Gon’s face better in the half-light, the ruddy sun’s daily death—tracing all the wrinkles there so deeply-etched in shade, his eyes lost beneath the shadows of high cheekbones and a heavy brow.

“You seem . . . uneasy about this, Master.”

A sigh. “It is . . . a fertility ritual, of sorts. An offering, if you will, for the good harvest.”

“A fertility ritual? I presume entailing . . . ” Heat flashes across Obi-Wan’s cheeks; he steps further back into the darkness, though he knows it does no good: Qui-Gon can read him just as easily through the Force as with the naked eye. “Well, I presume you said no, Master.”

“I . . . ” _We can’t, Padawan._ “Tell me: how much blood wine did you drink?”

“A cup, if even.”

“I suspect it’s been . . . well, that it’s not what Didi serves us. Whatever we’ve been given is, I think, some sort of aphrodisiac, something intended to . . . ah . . . _help_ with the ritual. How do you feel?”

“Fine. I think. I don’t— Master—we _can’t_ —”

Qui-Gon steps closer, near enough for Obi-Wan to feel his radiated body heat, the brush of his robe, the impalpable something tangible at last—the Force full of tremors, vibrations—the taste upon one’s tongue of the air before a storm, or snow . . .

He shudders, drawing a breath to quell the quickening that’s hounded him since he was thirteen. He’s gotten very good at that, he thinks—hiding such shameful desires—

“The ritual involves no beings but ourselves. Of that I’ve been assured.”

Soft, the words, and the softness shivers up his spine and sends a driving spike of _need_ straight to his cock. Oh, Force—the slow breath catches, becomes anything but steady.

“I think you’re right about the blood wine after all,” he manages at last. “Master . . . “

“It will be alright, Padawan.” Qui-Gon’s hand is at his shoulder, familiar: warm and thrumming with pulse and life; the effect is enough to cloud his vision for a moment, to cast everything as shades of grey but that through which flows the living Force—oh—and Qui-Gon is so bright, such a shade of chartreuse green, warm and bright and—

wanting needing

and

it’s not just the blood wine

it’s

“I have spoken with S’riin Thielo, to make certain . . . ah . . . I asked him what must be done, what we must offer . . . ”

“What did he say?”

warmth and green and Light

Qui-Gon is sometimes too bright in the Force, it seems, too bright to look at directly and oh—that’s how it always is in dreams—the end—the thing he will never grant himself, by his own hand or waking consciousness—the thing he feels such shame for—it is too bright and his Master is too beautiful (and yes this _must_ be the blood wine—why can’t he—why can’t it be dissipated—why—)

A tremulous exhalation, a breath regathered, the hand tightened against his shoulder. “Love.”

* * *

“And we _can’t_ know love, and—”

Qui-Gon has settled himself in their appointed quarters to meditate; Obi-Wan has taken it upon himself to contact Bant—not the least because she so often untangles the knots in his head—which is to say nothing of his heart—but also because being near to Qui-Gon is impossible. Not for the flesh but the spirit—oh—

“And now I don’t know what to do, Bant. It’s clearly intimacy of some kind . . . He says the priest told him it involves just us—but that could be in front of the Riél’chii, for all I know . . . “

“No, that I don’t believe. Master Qui-Gon would never put you in that position. No—not you. Not _both_ of you.”

Bant’s quiet voice is thick with more than static through the comlink.

“Blast! I’m sorry, Bant—it’s the middle of the night on Coruscant . . . I didn’t even think . . . ”

“Oh, well—Master Kit is testing me on sleep deprivation. It’s been a week, almost, so . . . talking to you helps.” Chimes of laughter, the sway of the ocean: steadfastness and clarity, oh, that’s been his dearest friend, always. “But Obi-Wan—he said the ritual would involve only the both of you, and I believe he meant it so. He wouldn’t let it be that anyone . . . watches.”

“No, you’re right, but I . . . “ Obi-Wan pauses in his restless pacing, seeking to find the calm center of his being, the source of the Light, the whisperings; the river-stone is warm in the pocket at his breast; the thought of Bant’s silver eyes calms him like the promise of the rain. “I never thought that it would be like this.”

“You could say no. He’d never force you to—”

“No—I want this. I’ve wanted this since I can remember, but . . .” Obi-Wan exhales, toys with the comlink in his hand, searching through the Force for some semblance of meaning. “I don’t know. Is this the will of the Force, Bant? Is this something we’re _supposed_ to do? Are we being given a—a chance to . . . do this rightly? Without fault?”

“What does your heart tell you?”

 _My heart tells me I’m afraid, because I fear breaking the Code, because this comes close enough even though I know Master Qui-Gon would never lead us there and . . . I don’t even know what we’ll do . . . or . . . what_ to _do . . ._

“And what do you want?”

_What I want is . . . softness . . . to feel him and hold him and taste him and breathe him but . . . ours, just ours: this can’t be for the Riél’chii in the end, it can’t, it—_

_I—_

The memory of his Master’s gaze piercing through the darkness flashes just behind his eyes, a play of melody along the bond, an unseen presence, an echo, spirit, at his shoulder—

_Qui-Gon knows that, doesn’t he?_

“Obi-Wan?”

“Hm?”

“You’re so afraid of breaking the Code, of knowing love, but . . . ah . . . but you both know it already. Don’t you see it, Obi-Wan? Don’t you see how much he loves you?”

* * *

Qui-Gon peels away the layers, one by one: the revelry that still echoes through the grotto’s empty halls, the breeze, the songs of the stones and the sway of life, the soil deep-below and across the fallow fields, the countless seeds waiting for light and warmth and water. The rapidly-approaching storm. And he peels away, too, the layers of himself: the blood wine-carousing flesh, aching, eager to step to the most primordial dance of all—

But not just that—

He’d have refused the ritual if only that—

But with the man he loves—

He wades through the River of Light, the water cold and purifying; he is naked in the Force and unashamed and he wonders if this is how it will be with Obi-Wan. The circumstances . . . would that they were different . . . but under what sanction save something like this could they ever know each other? Love each other? The Code so explicitly forbids it—

And yet in how many ways have they so clandestinely broken those same sacred vows? A touch, a glance? Tremors through the Force that none can feel but they? The dreams that flicker—sharings—moments of waking to a cry echoing his own—though his Padawan is so ashamed of it—

The way Obi-Wan is Light, all Light shining that Qui-Gon hopes someday to catch—just a handful of that soft-pale broken-dawn blue Light?

* * *

_But what are we supposed to_ do _?_

Obi-Wan’s bade Bant goodnight and switched off the comlink, settling himself in the darkness, the stone cool beneath him, his head heavy and pounding with the blood wine, his gut set to roiling—either from the cup (but a cup too much) or far less food than he’d prefer or—

Anticipation laced with . . .

 _It isn’t fear. It’s something else. It’s . . ._ His mind flickers back to the rudimentary courses on biology; even the Archives were near-silent on the act of love. He’d been taught the biological processes of procreation, of course, and lectured on puberty and species-specific development—and been told, without so many words, that masturbation was not frowned upon, as long as it was handled with decorum and restraint—but—

Nothing on the act of love.

Not that he hasn’t gathered details. Not that he doesn’t understand the presumption about two Human males and what the act implies.

_But I don’t want that. I just want . . ._

He wants what the shadows of his dreams have been—suppressed longing, ancient aching agony—whispers and motion and touch and lips and tongues but not—

_Qui-Gon said S’riin Thielo told him love was all they asked—_

_But will it be enough?_

Selfish though it is, he doesn’t care so much for the ritual—whatever the desires be of this God of Storm and Seed—but for his Master—

Will it be enough?

Obi-Wan inhales, the scent of dry stone thick in his nose, and rises to find Qui-Gon. A glance at the window gives him dusk half-fallen; soon enough the priests will come. The air is charged, the storm gathered, the energy of the Riél’chii mounting with sacred-erotic expectation—

But this—whatever is to come between Qui-Gon and himself—this is theirs, this is theirs, this is theirs.

* * *

Qui-Gon turns the act over in his mind as one of the priests comes to retrieve him. Someone else has escorted Obi-Wan away. Sigil-carved crystals are passed over his head, his limbs, his groin; low-strung words are laced in incantation, blessing, song. He bows his head as thick claws card carefully through silver-coppered hair, unbinding it, and his thoughts stumble still on what the act must be.

What he wants—

The crystals passed over him become a touch: torso, limbs, the lines of his face—oh—grasping for a moment onto his erection until his hips rock into the friction and he can feel himself beginning to seep through his trousers—

_Oh, Force—_

A lighter touch stills the base, instinctive motions and he stands a moment, shaking, while the priest does little more than chuckle—if not empathetically.

What he _wants_ is to feel his Padawan’s arms wrapped about him, to feel the heat and breadth of Obi-Wan's cock, slick-headed, stretch him and fill him—he knows, he _knows_ if it were to be just how the young man would move within him: self-calculated undulations, utter self-restraint—slow, feather-light strokes that would undo Qui-Gon in an instant—and what he wouldn’t give to feel the rhythm break and feel Obi-Wan lose control and to feel him—

“ _Ah_ —!”

And the moment of reprieve, mercy, is done, and the thickly-clawed hand has slid and strokes his thighs and—

 _Force_ , he’s so close—

“This way,” intones the priest—and dazed, the Jedi follows.

The light of a hundred glow-orbs illuminates the gala-hall; dusk has dropped to night and clouds have long since blotted out the stars. Herald-lightning flickers, gleaming teeth against the dark, as if some God is grinning.

And there, in the middle of the gathered throng that rims the hall—richly-robed, bedecked in gleaming metal, in bloodred stones and at the very least half-drunk, the lot of them—there is his Padawan, the light throwing his features into sharp relief, sharper shadows still—

And despite tunic and trousers Qui-Gon can tell—

Obi-Wan’s face is austere, calm; it appears indeed as if his Padawan has found more peace than he—

_Force help me._

* * *

Incense begins to waft over the hall, borne in gently-waving censers by two priests. The smoke is thick and draws tears from the corners of his eyes; Obi-Wan blinks, overcome for a moment by the sweet and subtle musk—a primordial scent indeed—and watches as Qui-Gon is led towards him through the glow-orb illumined haze. Towering though he is, the Riél’chii are far taller; the priest at his Master’s back makes him look almost like a child . . .

It is S’riin Thielo who steps before them, pouches bulging at his belt. He lifts his hands, a trill pouring from his snout, and the crowd takes up the cry, lets it fade into a murmur, fade into a chant that stirs the hairs on the back of Obi-Wan’s neck.

But he has eyes only for his Master, haloed in the glow-orbs’ muted glare: relaxed, to all appearances, but not so—oh—he can feel Qui-Gon’s body tense and quivering—

And it occurs to him that he might be too bright within the Force for Qui-Gon, sometimes, too—

_< Accept this, Padawan. Whatever it may be.>_

_< Yes, Master.>_

A fruit is dug out from one of the pouches, held up before them, tucked between two claws: something red and dried and spiced. “The _ki’jarah_ : the seed of passion. May thou taste it equally.”

Obi-Wan reaches out, but the priest behind him gently takes his arm; the one behind Qui-Gon shakes his head . . . and there comes a nudge at his back, just as his Master takes a step.

They are close. Their noses nearly touch. Obi-Wan can feel the waft of Qui-Gon’s breath against his skin and he swallows, throat taut and mouth suddenly run dry, heart pounding out a savage time, his cock a keening ache, tearing him between desire and uncertainty, the sacred and the spectacle: his Master’s eyes and the eyes of the priests, the dignitaries, the onlookers . . .

But those deep-blue eyes are refuge, peace: the Light of the Force shines through them clear as day, as if his Master holds out open arms and calls to him and promises that all will be well. Hadn’t he said as much, before?

* * *

_< Accept this, Master. Whatever it may be.>_

_< Yes, my Padawan . . . >_

And Qui-Gon has only a moment to study that face he knows so well—better than his own, perhaps—soft and boyish, still, but oh the boy’s been long, long gone—the eyes are a man’s—the set of his jaw—the quirk of his lips—

He is allowed to lift his hands and frame that face, thumbs following the cheekbones, stroking there a moment, tangling within his fingers the Padawan’s braid . . . how quickly have the years gone by . . . how much is there to tangle now . . . and if he slips his hand just so, he can reach back to tousle the queue . . .

A half-checked exhalation of nervous-heady laughter—

Before he dips his head, and the fruit is spice and fire, shriveled skin and goo and it burns going down but biting it means that their lips brush and beneath the veneer of blood wine, Obi-Wan’s taste sweet and—

The spiced fruit burns and kindles his blood and everything is warmth and fire and thunder rumbles overhead and soon, soon the storm will break and Qui-Gon can think only of the distance still between them, the claws at his shoulder, pulling him—back no more than a step but oh—

* * *

Obi-Wan suppresses the urge to cough as the fruit seems to lodge within his throat; he draws a breath and wills the muscles to relax, to let the fruit slide down and to accept the pain that bursts suddenly into a different kind of heat entirely and soft light behind his eyes and Qui-Gon’s touch—calloused coarse-thumbs at his cheeks and the bristles of his Master’s beard and their lips that linger far longer than need be to partake half of a dismal, shriveled fruit and—

A kiss and—

Never the kiss he’d wanted but—

_< Accept this, Padawan . . . >_

And he tilts his head just _so_ , until they fit together as two halves made whole, just _so_ and he parts his lips slightly and it’s as if he whispers—oh, but does he whisper it?—some secret, sacred truth—and his tongue flickers out and he wants to do more than merely taste but drink deeply and drown—

Before the priest, not unkindly, draws him back, and S’riin Thielo pulls bottles of oil from his belt.

“Oil keeps the fires burning.”

“Undress,” murmurs a voice at his back in lilting Basic; he pauses, uncertain, ashamed not of his nakedness before even these beings—the body is crude matter, after all—but of the fact that there will be no hiding his arousal. Not before his Master . . .

Blue eyes, blue eyes: he looks only at blue eyes as his fingers flick across the latch to his utility belt. It finds its way into curved claws; it is held, he notices, like a holy relic. And then he pulls his tunic above his head, swimming through the cloth, the air thick and heavy against bare skin in a way he hadn’t noticed thus: the weight of the storm coming. He pauses, closing his eyes as if to banish the prickling embarrassment that paints itself across his cheeks; toying with the tie to his trousers has reminded him, in no uncertain terms, of all he’s tried to hide: the patch of damp fabric and the agony that lies beneath.

A breath, slow and gentle, and he looks up again into blue eyes.

* * *

He shouldn’t look.

But he does.

And a bottle of the oil is uncapped and poured into the valleys of his hands and Qui-Gon can’t help but inhale and smell in that mixture, ah, the dried foliage and softness and headiness, oh, can’t help but smell something like his Padawan.

He traces sigils at Obi-Wan’s forehead, along his cheekbones, the tip of his nose; runes at his chest and above his heart and his shoulders and the palms of his upturned, trembling hands. Down along his thighs, his feet, and up again to trace the line of hair along his abdomen . . . The priest does not restrain him now and he circles, cresting shoulder-blades and sloping down his Padawan’s well-muscled back and resting for just a moment against his buttocks . . .

Before the journeywork begins again, kneading the dribbled oil into skin that’s soft, half-soft and traced with scars and just as rough as his own in places, ah, the hands, the hands that clench spasmodically against his own for just a moment, until Obi-Wan exhales (did he know he was holding his breath?) and leans into the touch, the oil warm, the touch heated, flaring, flashing—

Everywhere, everywhere but his cock, where Qui-Gon looks-but-shouldn’t-look. And he waits a moment, and S’riin Thielo waits as well, waits longer, waits with silence and patience that speak far more than a command.

Cerulean eyes meet his.

_< Accept this, whatever it may be . . . >_

And there is precum beaded-dripping pearlescent at the head and the Master can see that his Padawan is more than tense, can see the twitching need, can see the edge of orgasm that still he tries to self-deny; can see him shift and jerk at the shadow of a touch before Qui-Gon quietly slips one hand under his scrotum, cradling its weight as gently as if it is the seed of all new life, and the other wraps around the shaft of his cock and draws the foreskin back with a stroke that sends a violent shudder through the younger man.

Before Obi-Wan’s hand catches his; the boyish face is twisted as if in agony and there is a silent plea at his lips, the bond flaring bright to bursting stars between each gasping breath.

_< Not here not here not here not here>_

Qui-Gon bows his head, only half aware that he, too, shakes, and steps away.

* * *

The second bottle of oil is uncapped and poured into his hands; the scent is subtler, deeper, primordial; Obi-Wan knows that he could take a handful of soil from any life-bearing world and smell something like this—something like his Master. He steps forward, anchoring himself with the texture of the stone beneath his footsoles, hoping in vain to forget the feel, for just a moment, of Qui-Gon’s hands on his body—Qui-Gon’s hands at his groin, cupping him with such tenderness while with firm and slickened grip stroking at his cock—

 _Not here._ His body dares betray him but he will not, will not, disgrace himself before those gathered here—these strangers—ah—he might accept whatever this ritual may be, whatever they deem sacrifice, but if he breaks his vows, it will be on as much his terms—theirs—as the Riél’chii’s.

He sees now, and well and fully, what Bant meant . . .

Qui-Gon’s skin is hot as sun-baked soil or stones or a dancing flame; Obi-Wan knows his body well—the planes and valleys—the stories behind most of the hypertrophic scars. His Master tilts his head back, tresses of unbound hair cascading across his shoulders, tangling betwixt his shoulder-blades; his eyes are closed, his mouth agape, and as Obi-Wan begins to work his way along his limbs each breath gathers into a quiet moan.

He keeps his touch precise, and gentle; he does not tease Qui-Gon with runes or patterns but strokes at knots and muscles until they are softened and the skin gleams only slightly with the oil’s kiss. He considers that he has bathed his Master before but never dared to look, and now he looks in the light of a dozen glow-orbs and longs to look far more beneath a lightning-shattered sky than here, with all these gazes, all this artificial luminescence . . .

Ah, darkness: a storm dark night and better to see his Master through the Force and the traces of _that_ Light which leave echoes in the living flesh and—

Qui-Gon’s thighs are shaking when he touches them, quickening and quivering-frenetic with a kind of energy that’s far too much to bear. Obi-Wan fights for a steady measure to his breath, aware now that Qui-Gon’s own is ragged, hoarse, and even as his hands ghost over a thicket of hair at his groin, oh, there is no word, nothing through the bond, asking him to stop.

Some part of him knows where this will end.

And he knows also that if he considers this too closely it will undo him, too; he closes his eyes, however briefly, before his oil-slick fingertips curl about the shaft of his Master’s cock, the skin soft and beating, velvet, and the firmness and the hips that jerk recklessly against his touch and oh, Force; what of his Master isn’t beautiful?

* * *

_< Oh, Force—oh, Force—don’t stop—Obi-Wan—oh, please—>_

And Qui-Gon doubles over, fingers gripping with white-knuckled abandon at Obi-Wan’s strong shoulders, his whole body seized and the orgasm tearing through him and he hardly recognizes the cry as his own and he only half-cares about the beings who are watching and he is lost, he is lost, undone, completely, _Force_ , every muscle in his body clenched, drenched in sweat and oil, it is the heat that has been building in his belly and his cock and the core of him for _years_ all for this young man, this pale-blue-Force-Light, this love of his, oh, and he can’t do anything about it and this is theirs, is theirs, is theirs, and in spurted desperation that seems without end he spills himself into his Padawan’s hands.

* * *

Obi-Wan stumbles back into his clothing, fumbles with his belt, his boots; even the rough fabric of his trousers, the friction, is enough to nearly make him cum. He can scarcely see for need, for the orgasm that would swallow him, and so he reaches blindly for his Master’s hand. The glow-orbs are too bright, the lightning that dances in the near-distance too alluring; the wild call of the storm is the fevered frantic pulse within his blood and _Force_ he wants Qui-Gon, just Qui-Gon, and the sooner they leave the gala-hall, the better.

The stone at his breast sings, flares _bright_ , and oh, yes, the Force wills this—yes, Bant was right—this is their moment—given blessing—

Oh, Force—oh, Force—he needs—he _needs_ —

He’s needed for thirteen years and never touched himself and never done more than woken to cum splattered across his skin or sleep-couch, sticky, cold, and now he understands the depths of it and now it’s Qui-Gon’s cum which is still warm against his hand, mixed with the oil, and—

“Out into the fields with thou.”

Dimly the lilting voice of S’riin Thielo. Blast, why that? Why not just clear the hall and leave them here and—

“Out into the fields; let the storm wash thee; let the lightning bless thee; let thy cries be lost unto the thunder’s laughter, aye—go then—go then, and may it please the God of Seed and Storm! May thou bless the seeds sewn and sleeping; may thou waken them and bring the long-rains and dawn.”

Qui-Gon’s arms are strong about his shoulders, guiding his staggered steps, coaxing him through the parted crowds, the bond something warm and gentle wrapped around him—so full of love he isn’t sure quite what to call it—more than love, for love is such a weak and foolish word—

_< Come now, Padawan; this way; it will be alright. Hold onto me. Just hold on, hold on. It will be alright, Obi-Wan, I promise you.>_

And together they walk into the red-rimmed darkness, just as rain begins to fall.

* * *

The middle of the fields—or _a_ field—for the soil is not barren beneath their bootsoles now and there are thick, waxy leaves of grass that tangle at their ankles. The city is an echo, a memory; they are far enough away that even for the flat, flat wilds no artificial light, no haze, mars the horizon. Just the storm, the rain, the lightning dancing and the thunder shaking all.

 _Here_ , whispers the Force—and so here they are—and Qui-Gon pulls off his sodden robe, throws it on the ground; Obi-Wan does likewise. They are beyond words, now—anything as needs saying needs not be spoken, perhaps cannot be so.

They undress, as before, and gratefully this time; their clothing is sticky with oil and clinging to their skin with rain. The air is warm and heavy, thick as the soil of Riél’ch, the whole of the planet seeming pregnant with the waiting seeds, the promise of dawn, as if the act of love is somehow, also, labor-pain.

* * *

_< Here,> _says Qui-Gon, arms open, hands outheld, appearing briefly to the body’s eye in the lightning flash—but oh—but oh—bright-beacon always, warm-green-growing things, Light, pure Light, within the Force—

And _nearness_ and radiated heat and the familiar body pressed against his own and Obi-Wan can scarcely breathe and _< Oh, Master, please, I’m—oh, please—>_ So close and it’s agony and Qui-Gon shifts against him and he swears that it’s enough that the whole galaxy will coalesce behind his eyes and—but—no—

But no, and despite himself he whimpers.

 _< What do you need?> _Large hands carding through his sodden braid, broad hips swaying slightly, sweet-friction, _Force_ — _< What did I tell you? Hold on to me, dear Obi-Wan; it will be alright . . . tell me, tell me what you need now, love . . . >_

* * *

“Oh, Master—please, Master—I’m—I can’t—”

And the words are wrenched amidst half-swallowed sweet rain despite the unspoken, silent vow, and Qui-Gon pulls the young man down, down until they are tangled together in their soaking robes, the blades of foliage poking them at random through the cloth, but oh, perhaps better this than to make love for one’s first-time-and-only in the mud. He isn’t sure. But he knows enough to see that his apprentice can hardly stand and so here, here now they are with the planet to cradle them, the storm striking the rhythm, ancient—

* * *

Obi-Wan searches first with a hand, finding his Master’s brow, the tresses of his hair twisted-thick with rain—and then his lips. He wants the thing that should have been this way, just the two of them, like this, no bitter-burning fruit that fired his blood—just soft-sweet-cold rainwater and the heat of Qui-Gon’s body and his lips and oh, those bristle-beard encircled lips are parted and he shifts and finds that place where they fit, just _so_ , and he plunges his tongue deep and yes, at last, to drink deeply, as if to drown—

* * *

The kiss is chaotic and frantic and neither knows what he’s doing with lips or tongue and Qui-Gon wouldn’t have it any other way. There have been other kisses, chaste, if not of lips, like this—ah, how many slight touches, how many glances, how many moments in meditation have been . . . prudent, if not sanctioned? But how many moments have conveyed as much as this—held out a promise, a hope, by-the-will-of-the-Force—?

And here they are.

And he can feel Obi-Wan’s whole body tense, mewling cries half-swallowed as the young man buries his head in the crook of Qui-Gon’s neck, the harshness of his breath hot and ragged at the Master’s collarbone.

He runs broad hands along his Padawan’s sides, stroking at his hips, at the clenching buttocks, willing him, promising him that this will never be too much—it will consume him but not destroy him—it is pleasure and if the body is crude matter, it is still a vessel for the Force and this, the pleasure is Force-given—and this between them—

Here, now, can he feel Qui-Gon’s hardness, too?—can he feel each subtle rolling of the hips he straddles, seeking friction?—can he hear Qui-Gon’s cries, feel his hands begin to shake, oh, feel them clutch at his buttocks as he thrusts and grinds against the larger man?—can he feel his Master’s cock begin to twitch and—

* * *

_< With me. Obi-Wan, with me; it will be alright; with me . . . >_

The coarse hand that slips to caress his back is soft, so unutterably soft and gentle, and he arches up into the touch and loses the rhythm and—

_< Master—oh, yes—oh, yes—oh, yes—>_

Logorrheic nonsense pouring from his lips, wrenching moans wrought from the core of him, oh, thirteen years, and he doesn’t care, just tightens his arms and tangles his fingers in Qui-Gon’s hair and pours all of everything, oh Force, more than he can stand, into the bond, into the Light, half-sobbing in time with the pulsing of his cock, the jets of seed, as he cums and he cums and he cums.

* * *

_< What are we supposed to do, Master?>_

The question that seemed so pressing earlier sounds childish at best, now that they’re naked, wrapped in each other’s arms, rain pattering upon their skin, washing away the sweat and oil and cum . . . now that Obi-Wan holds his Master’s stiffening cock in his hand. His own body has never quieted, but the edge at least is dulled, and for a moment he can think more clearly.

Qui-Gon’s finger pauses in its rhythmic stroking of his cheek. Lightning casts his face, for such a brief moment, into slivered aquiline silhouette. _< What do you mean?>_

 _< I have . . . I know what two men are supposed to do, Master. How we’re supposed to . . . > _Obi-Wan inhales, tastes a drop of rain, notices the air lightening a bit as the storm begins to blow itself out. _< How we’re supposed to make love.>_

Qui-Gon considers this carefully, half-tempted to ask just where it was his Padawan gathered his information from. Something from the HoloNet—forbidden though such risqué productions were? The Archives?—well, no, there was so little there to start with . . . Friends, who’d fumbled around in the dark? The whisperings of pilots? But it doesn’t matter, in the end—because he knows no more than what he wants, and what he suspects Obi-Wan doesn’t, and the young man in his arms is far too precious to even inquire . . . ah . . . perhaps it’s best, then, that dreams stay dreams . . .

_< There is no ‘supposed to’, Padawan. A Jedi is forbidden love and celibate, of course, so I’m sure that in theory you’ve been told we never need to know the details . . . But let me tell you what I’ve seen across the galaxy: two beings are in love. And that’s enough. There is no ‘should’. Whatever in the act of love is shared between them is enough. In this moment, here are you and I and this world and this dancing, laughing God of Storms—here we are appeasing Him, so the Riél’chii believe, to wake the seeds. That’s good enough for me._

_< The Force has brought us this, Obi-Wan. You, this moment . . . that’s enough. I need nothing more. Accept this, my Padawan, for whatever it may be . . . do you remember?>_

Another pause, and Qui-Gon finds his Padawan’s lips in the dark, half-parted in wonder, and gently traces his tongue along the rain-kissed skin, finding salt-tracked tears intermixed. He shifts, slowly rocking his hips, his cock slipping through the grasp that Obi-Wan instinctively tightens; a low hum of pleasure works itself up Qui-Gon’s throat.

_< Do you see? Can you feel it?>_

And Qui-Gon shifts again, his tongue trailing, tracing light-flicked paths along Obi-Wan’s skin, kissing and stroking with the slightest touches all of him—all of him—pressing with a fingertip against his perineum, eliciting a cry, catching a rhythm that carries them, oh, carries the both of them unto the Light.

* * *

_This is making love._

The realization is slow, is something gathered in gasping breath and pleasures spun into orgasm as if without end even though there’s long-since been no seed to give, as if milk to the seeds of the soil. He can feel the Force surging through them, twining itself between them, the bond finding further echoes in their flesh, in ways he never knew, ways that mirror and are much more than when they spar or square off against their foes or slip through a crowd or shadows as one man, it seems, silent, unseen. How they move with each other and how their hands and their lips find all the hidden places that rekindle the flames and draw cries of need and how they need say nothing now that his heart is lifted, now that he understands and oh, no, there was nothing to worry over—nothing ever to fear—

The storm is long passed, the night grown still, and somewhere to the west the sky is beginning to gather itself for the day. He studies it through a heavy-lidded gaze, his eyes half-rolled, reveling in the feel of Qui-Gon’s weight borne so tenderly upon him, oh, the feel of his cock nestled into the crook of his thigh . . . and how his Master pauses just before he cums, as if holding himself at the edge, before thrusting with short and gentle-sharp snaps of his hips and how his love cry is always a ternary song, three notes quickly strung—

And how Obi-Wan eases himself into the orgasm, how Qui-Gon strokes him so lovingly into it, ah, letting it bear him with a slowly-mounting burst of color and light into rapture—ever and always softly-green rapturous light, just behind his eyes.

* * *

“Oh, Master—oh, Master.”

Quiet, the cries now: languid: hoarse-throated, for the night has been long. Qui-Gon gathers his Padawan close, inhaling deeply, the morning bright and fresh and new. He reaches through the living Force, through the soil, whispering to the awakened seeds, the tenuous spearing of a spindling root—down and deep, through the darkness—while leaves strive ever towards the light.

Ah—the Light—

Obi-Wan has drifted off into exhausted sleep, and he smiles, toying with the half-dried braid. The rising sun slowly spreads and blossoms, and for just a moment—oh—

Even on this world of nothing but crimson shades, even with a copper sky, the dawn is such a pale, pale blue, just at the corners of his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Prompts? Prompts prompts prompts?** :)


End file.
